You Taught Me How To Live
by Emilie Rose
Summary: What happens to Jimmy after Johnny leaves? Whatshername intervenes and changes everything. Rated M, I suppose, but just because it's a story about a drug dealer and a bunch of people who curse a lot.
1. When September Ends

**A/N- This is a story about Saint Jimmy and Johnny, but Johnny might not be in it for a while. It starts soon after "Letterbomb", with Jimmy on his own after Johnny leaves.**

**Just a quick comment: Although Tony Vincent is no longer performing as Saint Jimmy and I saw Billie Joe in the role this Sunday, Mr. Vincent will always be Saint Jimmy to me. So if you're imagining this story in your mind, it is his Jimmy I encourage you to picture.**

**Disclaimer- Really? I know I'm awesome, but I'm not a god. That's Billie Joe Armstrong. Thank you, sir, for sharing your brilliance with the masses.**

_WHEN SEPTEMBER ENDS_

_Whatshername's Point of View_

It really upset me when Johnny left. He had seemed like such a nice kid at first, and I had a lot of fun with him. But then the almighty Saint Jimmy sunk his painted-black talons in too deep and off Johnny went, next in a long line of souls to be sucked dry by that creepy bastard.

I had had the great misfortune of knowing Saint Jimmy for some time before Johnny came to our city. He loved manipulating people. I always got the impression that he was looking for some natural high more powerful than those produced by his numerous drugs. He used drugs, his power over others and his wild behavior to get attention.

Though I admit he was at times entertaining to be around, I never found myself in danger of falling into his trap. The, hair, the clothes, the air of creepy seduction- none of it did anything for me except convince me that he was full of shit. God, even his name was absurd! "Saint Jimmy"? Really? Who the fuck did he think he was?

Losing a good friend- possibly more than a friend- to Saint Jimmy hurt a lot, but I had seen the writing on the wall for a while. So I managed to do what I have always done when things go wrong. I held my head high and moved on. Work, friends, parties which were made infinitely more enjoyable by Jimmy's absence. All these things helped heal me and allow me to comfortably close the door on the chapter of my life entitled "Johnny".

Until I saw them in the street one night. They were both drunk off their asses, staggering around in stupid party hats, and having a blast. It made me sick to see the depths to which Saint Jimmy had dragged poor, naïve Johnny. Why couldn't Johnny see that this creep wasn't his friend?

I lost it. I know I should have just kept walking, but- ugh! I told Johnny exactly what I thought of his companion and how he was being an idiot for playing his twisted games. Jimmy ran away, pathetic coward that he was, and left Johnny staring at me in open-mouthed shock. I stormed off, shouting over my shoulder that Johnny needed to wake the fuck up. And after getting back to my apartment, I let go of any remaining rage, sure that I was done with the two of them for good.

**Yeah, I know that's pathetically short. But it seemed like a good intro, so I'm going to leave it as its own piece. By the time I post this, Chapter 1 will be completed and will go up within several minutes of the Prologue.**

**I know nothing happened yet, but… reviews?**


	2. The City's Burning It's Not My Burden

**A/N- Restated from previous chapter: Although Tony Vincent is no longer performing as Saint Jimmy and I saw Billie Joe in the role this Sunday, Mr. Vincent will always be Saint Jimmy to me. So if you're imagining this story in your mind, it is his Jimmy I encourage you to picture.**

**Disclaimer: Uh… yeah. FAN-fiction.**

_THE CITY'S BURNING- IT'S NOT MY BURDEN_

_Whatshername's Point of View_

About ten days after my explosive run-in with Johnny on the street, I went to a party with a few of my friends. The band was good and the beer was cheap; I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I tried not to look over to the side of the room where the very high people seemed to be congregating, just in case I saw someone who recognized me and wanted to ask about Johnny.

For hours, my just-ignoring-them strategy worked fine, but then something caught my eye. It was hair. Stupid, right, to notice hair in a room full of people. Now maybe if it was my hair, that would make sense. Pink tends to be rather eye-catching. But this was just black hair. Very black hair that contrasted sharply with the white skin out of which it grew.

Cursing the day that I had first seen that utterly ridiculous hairstyle and the man who wore it so proudly, I turned to fully look at the group. Typical. A bunch of brainwashed zombies begging Saint Jimmy for drugs.

Involuntarily, I scanned the many faces for Johnny. I couldn't suppress the twinge of concern I felt when I was certain he wasn't there. What had Saint Jimmy done to him?

But then I began to notice that there was something off about the great drug dealer. His usually hypnotic movements seemed somehow clumsy and several times, he swayed as if on the verge of falling.

"Hey, you okay?"

I turned to see my friends staring at me with worried looks. "What? Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Just spaced out for a minute. Sorry." Forcing my attention back on to my companions, I turned my back on Saint Jimmy.

As hard as I tried to get back into the swing of conversation with my friends, I could not stop my mind from repeating the same question over and over again. Where was Johnny? If he wasn't with Jimmy, where could he be?

The decision was finally made to call it a night. I wanted to walk home with my friends and never come back to this club again. But every time I glanced over at Saint Jimmy, I pictured Johnny lying dead in some filthy gutter. Giving way to my fears and desire for answers, I told my companions that I had spotted an old acquaintance and wanted to go and say hello. They nodded in understanding, bid me goodnight, and left.

I watched Jimmy for a few minutes before approaching him. There was indeed something wrong with him. His typical way of walking could be described as gliding; that night it more closely resembled staggering. His clothes looked rumpled and unwashed, as if he had slept in them the night before. His usually perfect eye make-up was smeared onto his cheek. His speech was slurred.

Seeing Saint Jimmy drunk and high was nothing unusual. I don't think I had ever seen him sober before he and Johnny moved into my apartment. But he never let himself get to the point where he could no longer control his actions. To be honest, it was more than a little concerning to witness Jimmy under the influence of the drugs he used to make everyone else adore him.

I called to him from several feet away, not sure how he would react to my presence. He spun around to face me, nearly losing his balance. "Tha's my name. And don' wear it out."

He squinted at me as if trying to focus on my face. I watched in mild amusement as recognition flooded over him and his normally attractive features twisted into a hideous expression of hate mixed with… fear? Really?

"Long time no see, Jimmy," I began casually, purposefully neglecting to address him by the ridiculous title of "Saint".

He started toward me, but his steps were much too wobbly for me to be intimidated. Stopping an inch away from my face, he snarled, "Get th'fuck outta my life. You ruined ev'rything, you goddam bitch. Now go 'way."

I honestly had no idea what he was talking about and I told him so. "I was just wondering why Johnny wasn't with you. Just answer that and I'll go. Seriously, I have no desire to be around you any longer than I have to."

Concern suddenly filled Jimmy's face. "Y'mean he's not with you? I thought he'd've come right back here."

"What are you talking about, Jimmy?" I asked, trying to be patient.

"You made'im go 'way, you fucking bitch. In the street that day, when you yelled at him. He packed up all his junk, said you were right, I'm a manip'lative sonofabitch and he hadda go wake up. I thought he was coming back t'you. Maybe he wanted to get clean first? I dunno. I dunno where he is. But he'll come find you. When he does, c'you tell him I said… tell him I said… Fuck it!"

He took a few steps away from me, then shouted, "Fuck it! Fuck you! Get outta here!" He grabbed a large glass of whiskey out of one of his groupie's hand, drank it down, and smashed the glass on the floor while flipping me off. Deciding I didn't want to see whatever stupid-ass thing he was going to do next, I left.

I floated back to my apartment with Jimmy's voice ringing in my ears. _You made'im go 'way, you fucking bitch. In the street that day, when you yelled at him._ Johnny had listened to me. He had gone off to get his life back on track.

I hoped Jimmy was right in his speculation that Johnny would come back to see me once he was clean. I wasn't in love with him, but he had been a really great friend, something that's getting more and more hard to find in this crazy world. I would love having him back in my life.

But I knew that if he didn't come back, that would be okay, too. He was free of Saint Jimmy, and that was all that really mattered.

**Wow. Again, short. I know. But I kind of like how this is coming out so far. Does anyone else?**

**This fic is still sort of up in the air in my mind, so feedback would be very much appreciated.**


	3. Now You're Coming Unglued

**As stated in earlier chapters:**

**1- Tony Vincent is the one and only Saint Jimmy**

**2- These characters are not my creation. I just love them.**

_NOW YOU'RE COMING UNGLUED_

_Whatshername's Point of View_

The next night found me, to my great displeasure, in the same club where I had spoken to Saint Jimmy the night before.

Several of the other employees of the restaurant where I waitressed wanted to go out for drinks after a particularly hectic day, and since I had been personally invited by Jakob, the very attractive assistant manager, I thought it would be very stupid of me to refuse.

Being less than two blocks away from the restaurant, that club was the natural choice. I went along anyway, deciding that the likelihood of bumping into Saint Jimmy two nights in a row was quite small.

Once again, the music was good and the beer was cheap. Now, the atmosphere was made even better by the presence of Jakob, who seemed to be a very nice gentleman. We talked amiably about music and movies for some time- he had good taste in both areas.

All thoughts of Jakob and his interesting assessment of _Shutter Island _flew from my mind, however, as I heard a voice cry out, "Yeah, Saint Jimmy!"

I turned around to see one of Jimmy's most loyal fans, a confused young man called Theo, egging Jimmy on as he danced provocatively on a table. Try as I might to forget the scene unfolding mere yards away from me, I couldn't help but notice that Jimmy looked even more disheveled than he had the night before.

Reminding myself that Saint Jimmy was no concern of mine and that I felt nothing but ill will toward him, I resumed my conversation with Jakob. Minutes later, however, a loud crash brought my attention back to Jimmy's corner of the room.

In his very drunken state, he had managed to overturn the table on which he had been dancing, sending both it and himself to the floor in a jumbled heap.

"Seriously, Jimmy? What the hell?"

"Do you know him?" asked Jakob curiously.

Dammit, I hadn't meant to say that out loud! I decided to just be honest; Jakob seemed like a pretty cool guy. "Yeah, unfortunately." There. That was honest without being too revealing, and it made it clear that my association with Jimmy was not anything I particularly enjoyed.

"Maybe you should go over there?" my companion suggested, attempting to be helpful.

"He's fine," I said confidently. "Look". Sure enough, Jimmy was on his feet again, dancing in a vaguely indecent manner with two girls who could scarcely be considered dressed. It didn't escape my notice, however, that the way he was sandwiched between them made it unnecessary for him to try to hold himself upright.

Soon, our conversation drifted back to other topics and I almost managed to forget that Saint Jimmy was getting smashed on the other side of the room. When Jakob offered to walk me home, I left with him, not sparing a glance for the half-conscious man now sprawled across the pool table.

I told myself that my return to the club the following night was due to sick curiosity. I only stayed about ten minutes, long enough to see the unshakeable Saint Jimmy fall to the floor in a fit of hysterical giggles brought on by the needle he was pressing into his thin arm.

The night after that, however, I knew I could no longer justify my actions with the excuse of curiosity. Jimmy's behavior had freaked me out. Since the day I met him, I never had never seen his façade weaken. Night after night of hard partying had never seemed to catch up with him. Groupies came, went, died, overdosed, whatever; it had never even phased him.

Now, he could barely stand up from all the drugs flooding his body. His impeccable appearance was flawed, wrinkled, and chipped.

I wondered briefly if whatever was happening had to do with Johnny, but dismissed the thought quickly. Johnny meant nothing to Saint Jimmy; he only cared about his drugs and himself. Like I had told Johnny so many times, he was no more than Jimmy's latest toy, which he would use until it broke, then throw it away.

Whatever the cause of Jimmy's downward spiral, however, I found myself wanting to snap him out of it. I knew he hated me and didn't think sitting him down for a friendly chat was a very good idea. Not knowing what else to do, I simply returned to the club each night to check on the crazed drug dealer.

Never before had I seen Jimmy stumble or fall. Never had I seen him stare into blank space for minutes at a time or collapse in a fit of laughter brought on by nothing at all. Never had I thought him capable of actually blacking out, speaking nonsense, or falling to the floor unconscious. Over the course of the week and a half that I visited the club on Jimmy's behalf, I witnessed all of these things. To say it scared me was an understatement.

At first it concerned me that none of his little fans had noticed anything wrong with their "Saint". But after a few days, I came to two possible conclusions: One- He was giving them more drugs to keep them oblivious or Two- As long as he kept them high and entertained, they didn't really give a shit about his wellbeing. I wasn't sure which one of these theories disturbed me more.

Either way, I felt with growing certainty that I had been grossly misjudging Saint Jimmy in my former assessments of him. Something was eating up the "Jimmy" underneath the "Saint" persona and I was sure that if it didn't stop soon, it would destroy him completely.

I sat at the bar one night, sipping a beer and watching Jimmy discreetly when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was one of my fellow waitresses, who had come out for a night of relaxation after a double shift. We chatted for a while before her boyfriend showed up and dragged her onto the club's crowded dance floor. It was after ten o'clock and anyway, Jimmy had managed to vanish while my back was turned. I left.

The narrow alley behind the club served as an excellent shortcut between it and my apartment building, so I slipped out the service entrance as usual. But unlike most nights, I had the distinct impression that there was someone else in the alley.

A soft groan issued from the general vicinity of the dumpster. I approached cautiously, fishing around in my purse for the little can of mace I always carried.

Saint Jimmy stood propped up in the corner made by the dumpster meeting the brick wall. I watched him anxiously, remaining in the shadows even though his eyes were tightly closed. After several minutes, I decided that I should just retreat as quietly as possible and go on home.

But just as I took my first step away from the dumpster, Jimmy's thin frame lurched forward violently and he threw up on the already filthy pavement. Cringing, I stepped toward him, determined to do something, even if it was as simple and meaningless as holding him steady as the next wave of nausea hit.

I stopped less than two feet away from him, my arm outstretched. Obviously, Jimmy needed help and it seemed like I was going to have to be the one to offer it. But this probably wasn't the best moment to call a truce and explain that I was now on his side. No, having me show up during this breakdown so complete that he had even gone outside to hide it from his lackeys would only make him hate me more.

And so I left the great Saint Jimmy puking behind a dumpster, wordlessly promising him that I would intervene at the next possible moment.

**Poor Saint Jimmy has finally reached his breaking point and Whatshername is at least trying to be helpful. You see, she's not a bad person, just… not very patient or understanding at times.**

**So, how am I doing? Makes sense? In character? My first thought was that Jimmy's meltdown was OOC, but in the real story he shoots himself in the head. Obviously, Jimmy has some serious inner turmoil. (And that's the beauty of his character.)**

**Enough about my own thoughts on Jimmy. Feedback? Please?**


	4. You're In Ruins

**As stated in earlier chapters:**

**1- Tony Vincent is the one and only Saint Jimmy. But I heard Melissa Etheridge did really great last week! So sad I wasn't able to see her.**

**2- Billie Joe wrote the characters and a bunch of brilliant minds together created the musical. I own nothing except ticket stubs from three performance.**

_YOU'RE IN RUINS_

_Whatshername's Point of View_

I returned to the club the following night, determined to speak to Saint Jimmy. Luckily, it was not my night to work late at the restaurant, so I managed to leave exactly at closing time. I hurried straight to the club, hoping to get a chance to talk to Jimmy before he was too drunk to think rationally.

Unfortunately, Jimmy's idea of happy hour had begun to blur with most people's idea of lunch time. I arrived at the club no later than nine o'clock to find him and a handful of his groupies already partying in full swing.

I stood off to one side, observing Saint Jimmy's behavior before attempting to approach him. As I had come to expect, he was visibly intoxicated, staggering between his followers and calling wildly to them in a slurred voice. His hair and clothes were disheveled and he looked to be on the verge of collapse.

I didn't have to wait long before an opportunity for me to approach presented itself. After fifteen minutes of watching him down shots like a man dying of thirst, I was not surprised to see the great Saint Jimmy's knees buckle under his unsteady weight.

None of his supposedly loyal fans made a move to help him. Though I had come to realize that they only cared about the drugs Saint Jimmy offered, it still disturbed me to see them completely ignore him as he lay sprawled on the dirty dance floor.

I approached him cautiously, as one would a wounded animal. He was struggling to stand when I reached him, and failing spectacularly in the attempt.

Disregarding the many unpleasant possible outcomes of touching Saint Jimmy without his permission, I knelt beside him and grabbed his arms in an attempt to steady him.

His head snapped up instantly and he stared at me through bloodshot eyes. The vacant, hazy look vanished as soon as he recognized me, but the expression of strong dislike he cast my way looked somehow diminished by the general air of exhaustion that enveloped him.

"Thought I toldya t'leave me 'lone."

"Yeah, Jimmy. You did."

"Then wha'the fuck're you doin' here?"

I hesitated, not sure how to tell someone I've always hated that I was seriously concerned about them. As I stared speechlessly at him, Jimmy's face suddenly filled with a mix of excitement and worry.

"Where's Johnny?" he asked loudly. "Didya find him? S'he okay?" He pulled out of my grasp and tried to stand, leaning heavily on me and still yelling about Johnny.

"Jimmy," I shouted over him. "Jimmy, stop! I don't know where he is."

He moved toward the door, as if he thought Johnny would be there. But the drugs and alcohol coursing through him dragged him back to the floor just feet into his journey.

I hurried to his side as he started to sway, breaking his fall and lowering him carefully to the floor.

"Stay still, Jimmy. He's not here."

"Then what'reya doing here? Go 'way."

"No, Jimmy. I've seen you here a lot lately and you're worrying me."

"Yeah, I bet I am," he mumbled. "Scared I'm gonna screw up your nex' hot fuckbuddy, ya selfish-lil-bitch?"

"No, Jimmy," I answered patiently. "I'm worried about you."

He snorted sarcastically. "Oh yeah. 'Cuz you suddenly don' hate my guts." He laughed nastily, then dissolved into a fit of hysterical giggles.

I took a deep breath, pushing my annoyance and lingering dislike aside. "Come on, Jimmy, let's go home. We'll talk tomorrow when you're sober."

I could almost hear Jimmy's drunken mind whirring as he tried to understand my words. "Home? Whaddaya mean, home?"

"My apartment, Jimmy. You remember the futon in the spare room? That place where you always crash when you're not couch-surfing?"

"You're gonna lemme back in there? Thoughtya threw us outta your life cuz I got'cher boyfriend fucked up."

"Oh, please, Jimmy," I quipped. "You pissed me off long before Johnny ever came to this city and I always let you sleep there."

A ghost of Saint Jimmy's signature grin flashed across his pale face. "Okay, fine, whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is. Lesgo home."

He leaned heavily on me during the short walk to my apartment. I wrapped my arm firmly around his narrow waist and supported him as best I could. Try as I might to focus only on dragging Jimmy's drunken form to bed, I couldn't help but notice how sharply his shoulder blade dug into me. When he stumbled, I gripped his torso to keep him standing; I clearly felt the ridges formed by his protruding ribs and spine.

Jimmy had always been thin, but the sort of thin that could be attributed to body type and activity. Now, he seemed half starved and I wondered if he had been remembering through his drugged stupor that eating was a necessary chore.

But this was a concern for a later time. The drugs raging through him were numbing his mind further with each passing step.

Somehow, I managed to drag him up the narrow flight of stairs leading to my apartment and into the spare room that I had begun to consider "Jimmy's room".

By the time I dumped him onto the futon, he was mumbling incoherently. I stopped trying to listen when I caught the words "Johnny" and "stupid sparkly party hat". He had fallen into a drunken sleep before I had finished pulling his leather boots off.

My mind was spinning with questions and concerns as I left Saint Jimmy sprawled unconscious on my futon. What had made his unshakable façade finally crack? Why, in his drunken babbling, had he brought up Johnny and the night I had finally managed to get through to him? Where was Johnny, anyway? Had he done something to actually upset Jimmy? Would Jimmy be angry in the morning when he woke up in my apartment?

It was late. I was tired and frustrated and starting to wonder if bringing Jimmy back here was a really stupid idea.

But none of my questions could be answered until the morning, when Jimmy was sober and I had at least a small chance of getting logical answers out of him. I crawled into bed and slowly fell into a restless sleep.

**Thoughts, anyone? Do you like it? Or do you just want Whatshername to stop talking? (I'm the one writing it and sometimes I want her to shut up, so…)**

**Let me know what you think and if you have any plot ideas!**

**PS. Chapter title? Yeah, I know. I picked the most non-descriptive line from the best song in the show…**


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